I’m sick today, and staying home from work. I have a terrible headache, and it’s making my jaw ache and food sound disgusting. So, I was watching television, and “The Donny and Marie” show came on. I remember how much I loved them when I was a kid. I had the Donnie and Marie dolls (and to answer your question, Donnie didn’t have underwear on like Ken, he had a large bulge… sort of like Marilyn Manson’s new look.) and I started comparing it to how much I can’t stand them now. Was Donnie always that much of a penis, or is this his new thing? I don’t really remember the show so much from when I was a youngster.
The District Attorney thing is resolved. The person was my makeup artist when I got my headshots done. I guess the Investigator could tell my hesitancy right away on the phone because he goes, “You’re not in any trouble. This doesn’t concern you, we just have a check of yours and we need you to fax in why you wrote it.” Then he gave me a check number that was different from the one on the paper, and I must have sounded suspicious again, because he started explaining what must have happened and “damn-that-secretary.” So I’m off the hook.
So, it’s September 21st…usually around this time I’m a total nutcase. (Old abuse victim talk here, watch out) I used to really have a hard time with September with nightmares and such, but for the past two years I haven’t had a rough time at all. I attribute it to growing up, and putting some of my past behind me, as well as being out of school, where many of my ulcers began, and…well…Eric. He keeps me totally at ease. I feel safe.
But I was cleaning a bookshelf this morning and I noticed some of my old journals from high school… mostly I just wrote poetry in there, but there were some short stories and such… man, it’s bad.
So terrible that I know you want to read it. Quit your smiling, you knew I’d share it with you, didn’t you?
I give you these examples not out of ridicule, but rather so you can appreciate how far I’ve come, and thank your deity that you don’t have to read this caliber of material every day. I will keep the writing as is, spelling and punctuation intact, so you too can feel like you’re sitting on my daybed in the middle of the night, pining away for that boy in homeroom.
Here’s a beautiful specimen:
April 24, 1992 I am mesmerized by whispers; Ones that murmur your name with a careless toss. I cling to the sounds with two fists– white knuckles. I am begging to hear more.My favorite word when I was younger was “murmur.” I think it still is my favorite word, I just try not to use it in everything I write. Much like when you were writing essays in class every paper had the word “plethora.”
Let me find a good one here:
Oh yeah. Here we go:
May 17, 1992 If I could harness the fire in the world in a kiss, I would deliver it to you. I want to shower you with all the clean blue rain this earth creates. I want to sprinkle snowflakes on your tongue. I want to paint your room a sunrise, and tuck you in with a sunset. I want to capture nature’s elements and store them in a box for your leisure. You deserve all of the best things this world has to offer.Somehow the Backstreet Boys found my journal and made millions off of it.
Teen angst, anyone?
3 March 1991 Life confuses me. Life is like the biggest poser in the world. It acts like it’s this big deal– it’s the coolest. It’s the best. So you want to be friends with it, get closer to it, so it makes you cool too. You seize life with both hands, expecting it to be this enormous rush and this overwhelming feeling of happiness and you expect the coolness to start to rub off on you. You stick with this new buddy for a while– maybe even years but it seems the longer you hang around, the more fake and superficial it seems. It’s all about status, and who looks superior to whom, and you realize that there are more important things to do. But still, you figure that life is just going through some sort of phase, and you continue to link arms with it.
After a while, life starts to lose its appeal. You’ve stripped away the superficialisy and you find that it is really dull and boring and not much to it.Now, what I like about this piece is obviously I was trying to make some sort of metaphor… for love I can only imagine, but it mostly sounds like “Old people give up.” Here you can see the beginning of my love of a ramble, and my inablility to end a sentence, and to instead keep it going with a comma.
Let’s see what else is here…
HA! Oh, man. I’m already embarrassed:
22 January 1991 It starts at my face. This warm rush trickles to my cheeks and a redness forms. The rush dances– tingling down my spine, following my veins to the tips of my fingers and swirling at the pit of my stomach– making me feel as queasy as that time we rode that roller coaster seven times in a row. My legs go next, feeling like they are caving in and they lose all stability as my toes go numb from anxiety. My hair is standing on end and my fists are clenched and I’m biting my tongue. You must be nearby.And I must look like a wreck when you see me. No wonder you never called or asked me to go with you! My hair would stand on end! I like the use of the word “veins” here, sort of creepy yet sensual. Very Sylvia Plath.
And now a look back at some early pamie poems.
20 October 1987 A chill through the air A nightly breeze. But the stars weren’t there Just the outline of the trees.I was very much into environmental issues, as you can see:
Empty beer cans are all around Empty trash bags litterbugs surroundI used to write this serial when I was a freshman in high school. I had totally forgotten about this. I used to write a chapter a week in a notebook, and the notebook would get passed around to a few of my friends. It was called “Harvey the Double Note,” and in it, you followed a detective on a case. But it was a spoof of detective/crime stories. After a couple of weeks I had strangers stopping me in the halls to ask me when I was going to write the next chapter. Then I got real nervous because I knew a bunch of people were reading it, and I killed off Harvey in a shark accident.
Tee hee hee… here’s a rant:
Things that piss me off 11 April 1991, 9:10 pm Sister recieved $30.00 instead of her normal $20.00 per week allowance $10.00 of which is for lunch money. Note 4 year age difference. Today the aforementioned grounded child proceeded to go malling. She held numerous phone conversations and did not miss one minute of television from 6:00-8:00. She is also entering my room exactly every 3.6 minutes. Remember she is supposed to be in her room reading. She also fit in a video game or two. Please note that none of these utlilities are located in her bedroom wher the “grounding” was to occur. Miss Sister is currently a straight “B” student save for “gym and lunch” as she said, and is rubbing it in quite nicely.then around this there’s some band names (“ministry”, “NIN”, “Jane’s Addiction”) and I’ve written “Everyone lies” in a deep dark marker. Then there’s some drawings of eyes crying and women covering their faces with their hands…
I obviously had absolutely no life back then if I could just follow my sister around and note every time she strayed from being grounded. I imagine myself with a notebook and pen marking down every game she played and exaclty how many minutes she was not in her bedroom. So sad. Note where I mocked her “B” average, because I was always so angry that my grades seemed to be overlooked.
Here’s a good sappy pining poem:
…the wandering Venus 13 August 1992 Come home to me. I can’t stand it here without you. I can’t find the words to say the emotions to feel the songs to sing the dreams to dream without you I am only an empty shell cracking uder the pressure. My Atlas is gone. My Apollo has disappeared. My Prometheus, who brings fire to my eyes and life to my soul is away. I am a wandering Venus, searching, ever searching for her god.I think I did a good job of meshing Greek and Roman mythology, doncha think?
Here’s where I get all deep and shit:
April 26, 1992 “The Confession: I worship not to Gods– My superiors are literary. A pen becomes my cross. My rosary? Sheets of paper. My place of worship changes From a museum to a library. I am silent in either. Respecting the displays of talent. Remnants of souls make me Who I am. Forcing me to reflect on what I once was. I feel reborn. These words and images mold me. I give my confession to the chilled marble steps. Forgive me, for it has been too long since my last confession. Twice I have doubted my worth. Three times my strength has faltered. Once I pretended I was someone that I wasn’t. Four times I tried to conform. I lay my face against the tile. Its energy feeds me. I am stripped of my sin And handed a pen For my emotions to encompass. I need not deities from heaven. I only need the wisdom to know myself To trust myself To be myself To laugh at foolish choices Even if they are my own. The doors close As do my eyes. And internal amen. Woah. It’s like you can see my soul, you know?I used to write in these only when I was in love and it wasn’t mutual. When I had a boyfriend, I only wrote when he was away or mad at me. I wish that I had kept a more accurate journal all these years, but I would always want to write a poem instead.
I wonder what I’ll think ten years from now when I read these journal entries? Will you still laugh with me? Will you still be there? Not likely. But you never know.
Love poems are funny, because sometimes I’ll look back at them and I’ll think, “As corny as that is, it’s truly how I felt back then.”
When you think you’ve invented the phrase, “I feel the Earth move,” you think that you are really speaking from your soul. The deepest, most private parts of you. Then you get a love letter from someone and he starts saying things like, “paint your room in a sunrise” and you realize you’re just another hack angst teen poet and you hide your journal from everyone and mock those that still do it.
When I was a freshman in college a bunch of friends goaded me into reading some of my poetry at a spoken word. (nothing you read here). I can’t believe I did it. I read a few things, and people came up to me afterwards to say how much it made them feel, and when I look at those poems now they seem really petty and catty and childish. I would never do that again. I’m glad I did it when I was younger, because I would feel so dumb and like a big ass poseur if I did it today. Can you imagine? Ugh.
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